


There's Safety in Numbers

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:32:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: shoot prompt: root and shaw occasionally sleep together. one day root has it especially hard with her number. making her think about all the people she's cared about has been taken from her or left her. so that night she goes to Shaw's for assurance, but all Shaw does is tell her to leave so she does. she leaves and goes off on her own for awhile. taking care of the numbers the machine tells her about and she's been gone for months, only Harold has heard from her and it's only about numbers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Safety in Numbers

"I’m here, Harry," Root trills, coming to a large skyscraper.  _Goldman Sachs Tower- wow_. At forty-four stories high, and built of steel and windows, it was a sight to be seen. Root can’t help but to stand at its base, gazing upwards until the height makes her nauseous.

"Excellent," Harold replies through the ear wig. "You remember what you have to do?"

"When don’t I?" She replies with a smirk, eyes stopping at the forty-second floor.  _I’ll be there soon._

"Be careful, Miss. Groves." She smiles warmly at his words.

"I will." With that, she pulls her hair behind her ear, walking through the front  door. The lobby is large and grand, constructed of deep marble and dark wood with lavish lounge chairs throughout. People hustle by in suits and skirts, all either talking into earpieces or conferencing with one another. Straightening up, Root smooths down her skirt, coming to the front desk.

"May I help you?" The clerk asks, crisp suit as plastic as the smile on his face.  _He looks like a Ken doll_ , she muses, but her face remains clear of the thought.

"I am here to see Marcus Rothman," Root tells him in a kind voice- one of which he doesn’t return.

"You have an appointment?"

"Yes, sir, it’s Dorothy Parker." He clicks on a keyboard for a minute or two, scrolling down.

* * *

 

"Level forty-two, you’ll see his name on a sign somewhere." Root gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, then walks to the nearest elevator. Hitting the button, she waits, staring at the black marble door. It’s so clean and smooth she can see her own reflection in it. She smiles at herself, wanting to be presentable. The door slides open, and she steps in alongside two men and an older woman. Root smiles at her warmly, and she smiles back.

"How far are you going up?" The woman asks in a scratchy old voice, wispy white hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her face is wrinkled, but she’s aged kindly and her eyes still glow with youth.

"Forty-two," Root tells her, gesturing to one of two lit buttons.

"As am I," the woman replies with a grand smile. "My grandson works here, and I’ve come to visit him." Her voice is sweet, filled with innocence, and she pulls her light pink cardigan up higher on small shoulders. She lifts up a bag that looks far too heavy for someone so petite and frail. "I made him lunch today. I thought we could sit together- I never get to see him anymore." Root can here the slight remorse lacing her happy tone, and smiles sympathetically.

"That’s very kind of you," Root tells her, meaning it with all her being. The woman shoots her a wide grin.

"My name is Agatha," she tells Root, holding out her free hand. Root shakes it generously with a toothy grin.

"Dorothy. Dorothy Parker."

"Dorothy  _Parker_!” Agatha exclaims, her volume causing Root to look at her in surprise. The men get off, and the doors close once more, continuing upwards. “I used to  _love_  Dorothy Parker’s poems growing up!” She gushes, eyes distant with memories. “Of course, she was a little  _old_  for me,” Agatha winks, and Root lets out a humored chuckle, “but I always found something special in them.” She smiles to herself for a minute before speaking again, much quieter now. “You have to tell the hostess that it’s a riot.”

The elevator dings and the doors pull open. Root smiles down at her fondly. “And she says she’ll just  _die_  if you don’t come to her  _next_  party.” Agatha’s eyes shoot back to Root’s with a wondrous glow in them. She smiles as they walk their separate ways- Root going right, Agatha headed left.

Walking off, Agatha shouts back over her shoulder, “If only a guarantee  _went_  with that!” Shaking her head in amusement, Root silently thanks the Machine for giving her the line.

Root descends on a large room filled to the breaking point with cubicles. Although no one shouts, the volume is ear shattering from the amount of people talking and typing. Coming down the narrow aisle-way, she sees the name tag tacked just outside of the cubicle. Poking her head in, she smiles, seeing the number. He has a dark, bald head with a pug nose and deep brown eyes. He types efficiently on a computer, not even noticing her presence. All around, the cramped space is covered in photos, both taken and drawn. Root clears her throat, and he turns, taking her in with a smile.

"Miss. Parker, hello, how may Sach’s investment banking firm help you?" He gestures for her to step in, and she is surprised at how such thin walls can block out so much noise.

"I was wondering, as someone hoping to start a business soon, that you could tell me more about what your company offers?" She leans against the side wall, eyes scanning the small space briefly before falling back on him.

"Ah, well, I’m sorry but you’ve come to the wrong place for that," he says, dropping his shoulders. "That would be Start-Up Management- I’m just an IT guy."

"Oh," Root says with a large amount of disappointment in her voice, lips pursing in a small pout. She looks away from him, knowing she needs to stall. Her eyes fall on a picture of a little girl with braided pigtails and a smile with her front teeth missing. "Is this your daughter?" She asks, picking up the frame. "She’s very beautiful."

"Thank you," Marcus says, a passion in his voice. "Her name’s Tya; she’s my pride and joy."

"How old is she?" Root asks, putting the frame back down.

"Six," he replies with a boasting tone that can only be found in loving fathers. "She’s only little, but I can already see she’s gonna look just like her momma." He scoots his chair out of the way, revealing a photo of the three of them together at a picnic. Root leans forward, analyzing the photo with a smile.

"Is she an only child?" Root asks, not seeing any other children in the room.

"Not for long," he says with a paternal glow in his eyes. "My wife- Maria- she’s due next month."

"Oh, congratulations," Root says with a large grin, eyes excited for him.

"Yeah," he replies with a satisfied sigh. "More pictures for my ‘office’." Root laughs at the small joke, and he as well. Standing, he comes to a drawn photo on the wall and pulls it down, handing it to Root. "When we told her she was gonna be a big sister, she drew me this. She’s always drawing me things." Root takes the page, looking at the messy crayon scribbles and trying to make something of it. She can see four oddly proportioned people, all with smiles that come far off their faces.

"That’s so sweet," Root tells him, handing it back. As he goes to hang it back up, there is the sound of gun fire and shattering glass. People scream from down the hall, and Root runs past Marcus, drawing a gun from her waistband, and gets ready to attack. She sees two men, but there are more bullets shooting from the back. Bending down, she slips out a second, smaller gun from within her boot, and clicks the safety off. The first of the men spots her and aims his gun; she shoots him down easily, but attracts much attention to herself.

” _Freeze_!” A security guard screams at her, gun pointed at her head from the side. “ _Drop_  your weapon!”

"I’m on your si-"

"I said  _drop_  it!” The second gunman aims at Root, finger coming to the trigger. In a flash she turns sideways, bringing her arms into an L with one in front of her and one out to the side. She shoots the guard in the shoulder just as the gunman’s bullet skates by, singeing her hair in its travels. She sends three bullets into the man’s chest as the security guard flails back, stray bullet flying into the ceiling. Screams erupt from the floor above.

Root hears a struggle and turns back to where she came from, only to see Marcus in the hands of one of the gunmen. “ _Please_!” He screams. “There must be some  _mistake_!”

"There is  _no_  mistake!” The man yells back, spitting on Marcus’s shoes. “ _Your_  little computer mess-up destroyed our  _entire_  industry!”

"I- I- I’m sorry! I- I n-never knew anything w- went wrong!" The gun man pulls him by the shirt collar, choking him.

"Apologies will do you  _nothing_.”

Root dashes forward, guns at the ready. She takes aim at the third gunmen, standing behind the two with Marcus, and he goes down effortlessly. Going into defense mode, the man throws Marcus down, opening fire on Root. Glass windows break as she drops to the floor, shooting the far one’s knee caps. Marcus crawls towards her, trying to escape. Root takes out the last man and he falls like a stone.

All sounds settle into an eerie silence, and the turned up dust and sheet rock lay dormant on the ground. Root can hear Marcus’s labored breathing, and stands. “Come on,” she says, extending a hand to him. He takes it gratefully.

"I guess you weren’t really here for the investment deal, huh?" He asks jokingly, and Root smiles.

” _POP! POP! POP!_ " The bullets make a sonic boom as they rocket forward, all hitting Marcus in the chest. The force throws him back, and the window breaks, letting him slip out. His hands flail forward, trying to grab something- anything.

Root drops to her stomach, feeling the glass shards digging into her abdomen as she stretches out a hand. It connects with his, and she is instantly yanked forward, head coming out of the window. With a grimace, she pushes her free hand into the ground, feeling as glass tears it apart, until they finally come to a shaky stop. Up to her shoulders is out of the broken window, and a dagger of glass still connected to it pierces Root in the upper arm. Marcus dangles from the window, blood dropping from him and to the earth below, as if it were rain and he the storm cloud. Root lifts her free hand, but pushes it back down right away, being yanked out another inch.  _I can’t move,_  she thinks, mind coming to worry. Marcus’s face is contorted in pain, and he looks up to her with agony written all over.

"This isn’t safe for you," he tells her, words sticking in his throat. "You need to let go."

"I’m not letting you  _die_ ,” Root counters, determination making her voice rattle. “You have a family- you have a wife and a kid and a baby on the way- I’m  _not_  going to let you miss that.” Root can hear footsteps as they approach, and she knows with dread it is the shooter.  _The one shooter I missed_. Marcus’s grip loosens on her hand, and Root grips his tighter in return.

"Miss, you can  _not_  do this,” Marcus says, voice in a plead.  _Shut up_ , Root thinks painfully,  _shut up and let me find a way out of this for you_. “It isn’t going to work. You need to keep yourself safe-  _I_  need you to keep yourself safe.”  _Shut up, shut up, shut up._

The footsteps are earthquakes now, and they stop over top of her. She can feel the presence of a leg on either side of her hips, and can hear steady breathing from just behind. Marcus must see him, because his eyes widen in fear.  _But not fear for him,_  Root thinks, feeling a lump come to her throat.  _Fear for me._

"Miss-  _please_!” Root sets her jaw, not wanting to let this man go. I _t can’t be this way, this can’t be how it ends._ But she can feel it, she can feel the hairs raise on her neck as the man’s gun slowly starts to take aim. Marcus’s eyes leave the man behind her, looking directly into Root’s.

"Please."

With a last, antagonized look, Root lets go, turning onto her stomach quickly and using her free hand to shoot the gunman three times in the chest. His legs buckle as he falls over to the side. But Root doesn’t care about that. She turns back to her stomach, the glass ripping at her nothing more than water on her skin with numbness. She throws her hand back down, but with a sinking heart, she knows it is already too late.

He falls. It’s like something from a movie, how slow he descends. Arm outstretched to Root, eyes wide, and mouth open in a final parting word that will never be said. His legs are bent as he comes to fall back first, but his eyes never leave Root’s. They are filled with all the things his mouth cannot get out it time. Like a film, she sees his wife in them, she sees his daughter in them, she sees his unborn child that he will never meet. She sees his daughter’s smile and his wife’s warm eyes. She sees every scribbled drawing he’s ever received, and she sees all the one’s he’ll never get. She sees hope, and she sees despair; she sees peace and she sees war- she sees life and she sees death.

Then everything speeds back up, and in less than an instant he is no more than a black dot, and then a black dot with a red ring around it as a bunch of other dots scramble away. Biting her lip with stinging eyes, she pushes herself to a shaky stand, seeing the glass in her shirt, but not feeling a thing. She sees the blood leaking through her white blouse, but it doesn’t feel like it belongs to her. Brushing off her hands, she stows away her guns, walking towards the back stairwell. She sees a sight that stops her heart.

 _The woman from the elevator_. Root looks away, disgusted- disgusted in herself.  _Why didn’t her number come up?_ She fumes, thinking of the lively woman on the ride up. Now there is nothing but death in those eyes, and those white teeth in a smile are smeared in blood. She’s not breathing, and there is a bullet hole between her eyes. Root sees the bag of food she had had with her, soaking in her blood as it pools on the floor. She comes before her, kneeling down with mournful eyes. She looks back at the woman, then takes her thumb and closes her eyes.

_I’m sorry, Agatha, I’m so, so sorry._

_______________\ If Your Number’s Up /______________

It’s late. 2:00 a.m. late.

Root saw Harold briefly earlier, but it was like seeing a day dream instead of a person. She couldn’t remember a word he had said, only that she now has bandages wrapped around her abdomen and right bicep, and her hands sting and smell of antibiotics. She remembers walking home like she was in a trance. Every building she walked past seemed to show Marcus falling and landing on the ground, and every person sitting on the curb was Agatha, bloodied and lifeless. Finally, she made it to her apartment. Now, shedding her torn-up clothes, she peels away the bandages and steps into the shower. The hot water burns her flesh, and she finally awakens from her zombie-like daze. She runs her fingers along the cuts on her palms, and winces as the shampoo seeps into them.

 _And she says she’ll just die if you don’t come to her next party._  Root repeats the line of the poem again and again in her head, picking it apart and putting it back together a million different ways.  _She’ll die, she’ll die- she did die_. Root thinks of Agatha’s family, of her grandson,  _Did she ever make it to him?_ It seemed like the one regret the woman had was not seeing her grandson enough, _did she get to speak to him one last time? At least see his face?_  She thinks back to how the bag was unpacked, and feels her stomach sink.  _And Marcus, what will his family think? To know their loved one is gone, so easily gone. It seems like such a far fetched idea until it is plopped on your lap._  She thinks of her own family-  _Harold, John, Sameen, and Lionel_ \- how awful it would be to loose them, how painstakingly easy it would be. Her mind comes to Shaw. What would she do if she lost Shaw- if it were her falling down, or her with the bullet between the eyes.  _What would it be then?_ She shakes her head, not even able to bear the thought, and shuts off the water.  _What if one day Shaw isn’t Shaw?_  Like her mother, like Hanna- what if Shaw became one on the list?  _No, she can’t,_ Root spits ferociously, re-bandaging herself.

Dressing quickly, she heads back out the door, determination in her weary bones as she pushes past the stiffness in her muscles. Root hadn’t heard a word from Shaw all day.  _Hearing her isn’t enough,_  Root thinks as she heads down the street. _I need to see her. I need to know she is okay- that she won’t go away._

The walk is a few minutes long, and Root plows through it in record time, hearing her abdomen begging her to stop. She can barely breathe, the pain seeming to suffocate her. Walking into Shaw’s apartment building, Root steps into the guest bathroom on the main floor. Lifting her baggy tee shirt, she sees blood flowers blooming through the wrappings.  _Maybe I’ll ask Shaw for help with this,_ she says to herself, rolling her shirt back down. _It will give me a worthy excuse of showing up so randomly._

Walking back out, Root slips into an elevator. Just before the doors close, an old woman steps inside to join her. Root looks away, unable to bear the memory so fresh in her head.

"Are you alright, kiddo?" The woman asks in a honey-sweet voice. Without looking at her, Root nods. The elevator door opens, and Root dashes out, leaving the senior citizen behind. Walking down the hallway, she watches as the numbers get closer to Shaw’s, and with each step her heart beats harder and faster. She stops before the door, takes a deep breath, then knocks. Root can hear a radio in the background, and knocks once more. A moment later, the music snaps off, and footsteps come closer. The door unlocks, and Shaw sticks her head out.

"What do you want, Root?" Shaw asks, not trying to hide her annoyance. Her hair is disheveled like she’s been awoken from sleep-  _which she probably has._ None the less, Root feels the butterflies carry her stomach away, and she barely suppresses a smile at seeing Shaw okay.

"Just wanted to check in," she replies. Shaw’s eyes narrow.

"Couldn’t you have done that any  _other_  time?” Shaw retorts, and Root feels a pang in her heart.

"Can- can I come in?" Root asks, perhaps a little too hopeful.

"No."

"Why not?"

Shaw sighs, rolling her eyes around before answering. “ _Just_  because you stay over  _some_  nights does  _not_  mean you can just  _waltz_  over here at two thirty  _a.m._  and come right in.”

"No," Root says, understanding now. "It’s not like that, I just want to tal-"

” _Root_.” Shaw cuts her off almost hostilely, and Root can feel the little energy she has deflating.

"Yes?" She asks hesitantly, afraid of what Shaw will say next.

"Leave." Root feels her stomach hit the floor, and her heart tears itself in two. Her lungs give up, not feeling anything worth making them work anymore.  _That was not what I expected._

"W…What?"

"Root, just  _leave_ ,” Shaw insists angrily- tiredly. “Now.” Root opens her mouth to respond, but the lump in her throat threatens to come up, and she closes it silently, eyes casting down, burning and wet. She swallows hard, feeling physical pain in her chest.

"Oh, uh, okay," she mumbles in reply, not looking up. She hears the door slam, then lock. Footsteps recede, then the radio crackles back to life. Root stands in the hallway, silent and motionless. She feels like crying, like screaming and damning everything to Hell. But she’s so empty inside there are no tears there, and her voice feels too unheard to scream, and there is nothing in the world worth damning. After standing there for a few silent minutes, she slumps away.

Walking out to the street, she heads in any direction, not having any clue of where to go. She wants to go home, but that’s the thing:  _where is home?_  She doesn’t know- doesn’t feel that she even has one. Angrily, she rips the ear wig from her ear, stepping on it with her boot and grinding it into the ground. Walking back to the apartment building, she stuffs her cellphone into Shaw’s mailbox, then goes. And the second she steps into the dark, she becomes one with it. And as the Sun washes it away, she disappears with the dark of night.

____________\ We’ll Find You /_____________

It had eaten at her all night. To the point where sleep wasn’t even an option, the guilt had torn her to shreds.  _Since when do I feel guilt?_  Shaw thinks with an unruly temper, pulling on her dark trench-coat before stepping out of her apartment. She closes the door, then stands, looking at the empty place where Root had stood only six hours ago.  _Why didn’t I just let her in?_

She remembers hearing the door so early in the morning, interrupting some of the only sleep she’d gotten in a while, and fetched it with tired annoyance.  _And it was Root._  For some reason unknown to her, she’d felt a flare of anger then, seeing her. Maybe it was because she hadn’t heard a peep from her the day before, and there she came out of the blue, like it was perfectly reasonable to chat.  _As if she hadn’t ditched me all day for who knows what_. But that anger left soon after she slammed the door. Root, past the light smile she sucked at concealing, had something in her eyes.  _They were haunted, they were broken._ Shaw begins to walk to the elevator, mind still reeling.

 _Something was wrong. And I shut the door._  She recalls walking away- turning on the radio. She’d made it to the bedroom before something got the better of her, and she walked back. She stood on the opposite side of the door, listening. Debating.  _Do I open the door or not?_  As soon as she’d caved, she heard footsteps leaving from the front of her door. Too tired to justify her actions now, Shaw had wandered back to bed, but was unable to sleep. Because every time she closed her eyes, all she saw was Root’s face with the broken eyes.

Stepping off of the elevator, she walks into the lobby, heading out the door. _I’ll ask her about it today_ , she decides, feeling the morning’s damp chill hit her face. Her foot crunches over something, but she doesn’t look back.  _It felt almost electronic,_  she thinks to herself, continuing to the subway station. Her mind thinks that maybe it had something to do with Root.  _Don’t be naive,_ Shaw hisses to herself, descending the stairs. Once she enters the terminal, she finds a set of  worried blue eyes on her.

"Harold…" Shaw trails off with a unsettled feeling. His body is tense, eyes frozen on her, and everything about him screams with wrongness. He seemed hopeful at first, but as the seconds tick by, he slips back into a thick despair. "Harold."

He snaps from his slight daze, but only his mouth. His eyes remain fixed behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Have you seen Miss. Groves?” He asks, and his voice tremors slightly.

"No, why." Shaw grinds her teeth together as her troubled feelings grow.

"She won’t answer her cell phone, and I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon. She had-.." He stops, and his eyes finally shift away with unease.

"She had  _what_ ,” Shaw demands, fists balling up tight.

"She had- she had a troubling day. She didn’t seem like herself. She was so.. so.."

"Haunted," Shaw finishes with the word he couldn’t find, and his eyes dart back to her with a glimmer of hope.

"So you  _have_  seen her?” He asks, walking closer.

"Uh- last night," Shaw tells him, shaking her head slightly. "She showed up at my apartment."

"Oh," he says, sighing in relief as a small smile meets his lips. "Thank-"

"I sent her away." Shaw’s words are quiet, but they echo off every wall, screaming each syllable back at her. Harold’s face hardens.

"Why would you  _do_  that,” he exclaims, nostrils flaring in anger. Shaw becomes defensive on instinct.

"How was I supposed to know she-"

” _You_  saw her,” he says in a dark but silent voice, eyes smoldering with blame at her. She’s never before seen him so terrifying. His voice carries a sinister haughtiness in them, and she swallows, trying hard to maintain steady eye contact. “You even saw how  _anguished_  she was, and yet you turn her away? You make her  _leave_? She would never come to anyone for anything- not to me, not to John- but she’d come to  _you_. And you forced her  _away_?” Shaw clenches her teeth, jaw setting as her eyes burn furiously.

John jogs in, catching them both in a locked stare. “I guess this means you haven’t found her?” He asks, looking at the both of them. Harold turns to face John as Shaw casts her face angrily the opposite way.

"She hasn’t been seen since last night. Did you find anything in her apartment?"

"Nothing," John replies, smoothing down his jacket. "It didn’t look like a struggle, but the place is empty. She’s not there."

Harold nods, then walks away to his computer. “Perhaps she needs a day to herself,” Harold says, mostly to convince himself. Shaw watches him from her taut stance across the station, unsure what to do. “Miss. Shaw,” Harold calls out, voice no longer harsh but not at all warm. “There is a number I need you to-“

"No."

Silence.

"What?" He asks, not looking at her.

"No," Shaw replies, this time with more force. "Not while she’s out there doing God knows what.  _Alone_.”

"You had your chance to make sure that  _didn’t_  happen,” he replies, nearly bitter. “And look what became of it.”

"Well, I’m going to right my wrongs," she meets his tone evenly, and he turns in his chair to look at her. His face is cold, despising her defiance, but his eyes are grateful, wishing her luck. Then they come to John.

"Mr. Reese, if you could-"

"I’m on it, Finch," he replies, giving a quick, assuring smile to Shaw. Shaw walks out of the subway station, mind set with determination, and John is right on her heels. Just before she ascends the last step, John puts a hand on her wrist, stopping her. Shaw looks back at him, every expression closed off.

"What."

"If anyone can find her," John says seriously, "it’s you." Shaw looks past him for a moment, not knowing how to respond. He releases her arm, and she leaves without another word.

Shaw walks home, deciding on the arsenal she’ll need as she steps through the front door.

"There’s something in your mail box," the teller tells her, jerking her from her thoughts.  _What?_  She thinks, walking over to the small cubby with her apartment number on it. When she opens it, her breath catches.

___________\ There’s Safety /____________

 _It’s been a month_. That’s all Harold Finch can think of as he shuts down his computer for the night. He remembers the first time he met her, how he wanted nothing more than to be rid of such a crazed person. But, as he got to know her and started to interact with her, he found someone who he understood- to a degree- and who understood him.  _She was remarkably intelligent,_ he says with a soft smile, grabbing his brief case. _Protective and generous- scary some times._  And now? Now, she is gone, and he wanted nothing more than for her to be back.

Just as he turns to leave, his cell phone rings. Digging through his pockets, he pulls it out, surprised to see an unknown caller. His heartbeat quickens as he thinks of the only one who could possibly know this number.

"Hello?" He asks, trying in vain not to sound eager.

"Hi, Harry," Root’s voice is the first rain of a ten year drought, and Harold sighs in relief. "Glad you answered." Her voice is solemn, not at all containing the life it once did, but he doesn’t care, he’s too ecstatic at hearing her voice after so long.

"Glad you called," he replies, a smile coming to his face. "You are missed  _terribly_  here.”

"Pull a blueprint for me," she says, ignoring his previous comment. Without even thinking, he reboots the computer and sets his fingers.

"For?"

"Tri-Sen Labs, all floors."

Harold furrows his brow. “There are dozens of them across the United States, how do you-“

"All of their layouts are the same." Her voice is choppy, impatient and rehearsed.

Harold types on his keyboard, then finds one, pulling it up. A large building with twice the amount of floors below ground as above it. “Got it, now how-“

"Send it to the email address that She gives you. And don’t bother sending a track with it, She’ll disable it." Harold sighs, nodding his head. Wedging the cellphone between his cheek and shoulder, he pulls up his university email. There is a message in the inbox with nothing more than an email address in the body, and he quickly composes an email to it. After adding the file in, he hits send. Almost instantly, that email and the one before it disappear from the inbox, and the web page shuts down.

"Got it," Root tells him.

"So, how have you been?" He asks her, pulling up a GPS program.

"I’ve been working. Numbers, nation wide," she replies in an even tone, revealing not an ounce of emotion, still Harold tries.

"Will you be coming back soon?"

Silence.

"Will you be-"

"I heard you," Root spits out bitterly.

"Everyone has been worried about you," Harold presses on, hoping that he can convince her to say yes. He thinks of Shaw, how that might just work. "Miss. Shaw- Sameen- she hasn’t stopped looking."

There is an uncomfortable shift on the other end of the line, and he knows he’s hit a nerve. _Come on,_  he chants to himself, watching as the tracking program pings around and around, trying to locate her.

"Harold," she says, her voice showing emotion for the first time. It is heart wrenching, how pitiful and lost that single word is, and he feels his heart cracking. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Don’t- don’t mention this call to Sameen."

Harold furrows his brow in confusion. “Why-“

She hangs up.

” _Wait_!” Harold calls out, but he calls out to nothing. The line is dead. Looking at his computer screen, it shows no result. Sighing heavily, he puts it on sleep mode, then turns his back to it, closing his eyes.

"Was that- was it Root?" He opens his eyes to see Shaw standing ten feet away, eyes on him. She’s soaked from head to toe, no doubt caused by the downpour outside, yet she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes have hope in them, but the rest of her remains neutral.

Harold looks at her a moment, then shakes his head sadly. “No. I’m sorry Miss. Shaw.” Shaw nods in understanding as she looks away, into the subway car. She walks in, shoes squishing slightly as she walks. Coming in, she rummages through a drawer within, and stuffs a taser and gun into her back pocket before stepping back out, pulling her jacket up higher around her neck. Harold’s thoughts spin, and he is utterly torn.  _Tell Shaw and loose Root’s trust, or keep quiet and have a chance?_

Shaw heads towards the end of the terminal when Harold finally speaks. “It’s- it’s eleven twenty!” He exclaims, looking to his watch. “I have papers to grade  _and_  a sermon to write before  _six_.” His voice is overly fretful, catching Shaw’s attention. “Miss. Shaw, could you shut down my computer? I have to go.”

"You’re  _right_  there, Harold,” she points out, and he swears to himself, realizing he’s still leaning on the desk.

"I  _really_  have to  _go_ ,” he puts emphasis on the words, and Shaw seems to understand. They pass by each other mid-way, neither looking at the other in the process. As Harold walks out, Shaw wakens the computer. Instantly, she is hit with an electronic blue print file. Confused, she digs deeper into it, seeing the logo at the top: Tri-Sen Labs.

Pulling up an online browser tab, she types in the name.  _There are seventy-three in America,_  she reads with a heavy heart. But yet, determination still holds strong to her, and she sits in Harold’s chair. One by one she clicks on every link to every laboratory, then runs a scan with one of Harold’s programs.  _He could have done this in all of five seconds_ , she fumes to herself, only on the tenth lab.  _This could take all night._

Still, she sifts and sorts, all the way up to the twenty-third. Right from the beginning, she sees something off about it. There is an attached article to it online, and she reads it quickly.

"Possible scam… money for experiments lining CEO’s pockets…" Closing it, she runs the CEO’s name through the program, and a number of things pop up. Every blemish erased from a squeaky clean record is revealed to her, drowning her in the filth. She jots down the address, then closes out of everything and shuts it off. Heart hammering, she checks the clock.  _And it only took me five hours_ , she says chaffingly, standing. Rolling her neck, she heads back out to the downpour, eyes set on a last minute plane ticket.

 _Seattle,_  here I come.

____________\ In Numbers /_____________

Root stalks down the street, heading back to her hotel for the night. It is a small place, not very nice, but almost directly across from her number’s lavish apartment.  _Charlie Huntzle- CEO_. She’s almost there when she hears a voice.

“Root.”

Root freezes, the one word feeling like a thousand missiles all aimed at her heart, set to kill. The voice is a knife in her chest, she can feel its sharp blade ripping a gash, and she can taste the blood of it in her mouth. The air becomes toxic, and she forgets how to breathe, seven tons of pressure on her lungs. She tries to swallow, but can’t even manage that small feat. Lungs burning and eyes starting to sting, she wills her numb legs to move, and she starts a slow step forward. Away from the voice.

"Come  _on_ , Root. Look at me. Just  _look_  at me.” The words are bullets in her brain, crushing her skull and filling her with an awful pain. Everything she has in her drains, but every vein pumps with jittery adrenaline, pulling her into a downward spiral. _I can’t_ , she thinks, the thought barely able to make its way through the mess of her ruined mind. But somehow, she does. With slow shuffles, she turns, feeling the cold, wet Seattle ground seeping in through the soles of her shoes. It’s dark outside, the air thick with the omen of rain. In the street, lights cast their yellow haze on the sidewalks, illuminating them fairly well. She’s standing under one, and as she makes her dreaded 180, she sees an all too familiar figure stopped at the one fifteen feet away. Root’s heart stops, every fiber of her being igniting in intolerable pain.

 _Sameen_. Her entire body is bathed in the light, forming some sort of halo glow behind her. And her face- it’s a way that Root has rarely seen it. Completely open; no steel barriers or poker face. Shaw’s jaw is set with a pain of its own, nose flared as she breathes in the damp air. Her eyes are as if she’s just found religion, right there in front of her. They’re large, and they’re glistening, and they’re screaming. Like a believer seeing the apparition of God before them. Like a drowning sailor finding a lifeboat. Like a lost soul finally finding its destination.

Root is unsure what to do, every wire in her brain short circuiting. Shaw is motionless as well, but then she takes a step forward.  _No_ , Root thinks, the one word coming to her.  _No, no no_. The closer Shaw gets, the more her mind says it, until it is a single, constant word.  _Nononononononononononono._

Shaw is consumed by darkness as she transitions between street lights, but resurfaces soon enough. She stops at the edge of the light, and Root can see her face crisply now, every feature that Shaw has, every feature Root has missed. She sees the chocolate-brown eyes, smooth hair pulled back tight, lips pressed together in a thin line, and cheeks colored with the weather. But more than that, Root can see what Shaw’s feeling. She can see the relief, and the hurt.

"Hi," Shaw says, voice almost making it to conversational, but too wonderstruck to achieve it. Shaw tries to smile, but can’t.

"Did Harold tell you how to find me?" Root demands, surprised by the bitter strength in her voice. Shaw shakes her head, but her eyes never leave Root’s. "Then how  _did_  you find me.”

"It wasn’t easy," Shaw admits, fingers shifting around nervously. "And it wasn’t cheap either. Did you know a plane ticket is  _twice_  as much when you need it ten minutes before the flight?” Shaw gives a short smirk at her words, but then becomes serious once more.

"You shouldn’t be here," Root tells her, only saying as much as she needs to, unsure when the dam will break.

Shaw licks her bottom lip, looking away from Root and to the darkened street before letting them come back. There is something else in them now, a set determination.

” _You_  shouldn’t be here,” Shaw says in a quiet voice. It’s Root’s turn to look away from her.

"Root, just come ho-"

” _Don’t_  say it.” Her words are harsh as her head snaps back to Shaw.

"Why not?"

"Because if you do, I will. I’d do  _anything_  for you; I can’t tell you no. If you told me to come home, I would. Just like you told me to leave and I  _left_.”

"I didn’t mean for you to take it  _this_  far!”

"How did you  _expect_  me to take it?!” Root shouts back, feeling all of her bottled emotions welling back up.

"I expected you to leave my apartment, not leave the  _state_!”

"Does it really matter  _where_  I went?” Root asks bitterly. Shaw cocks her head to the side, flustered. She throws her arms to the sides as she walks forward.

"Well  _yeah_ , Root, it does.” Her voice is angered and loud as she approaches. “It mattered enough for me to look for since the day you left; it mattered enough for me to be worried  _sick_ ; it mattered enough for me to come all the way out here at  _four_  in the morning our time- it  _matters_.”

 _Worried?_  Root things with pain. _She was worried?_ "Sorry for you to waste your time," Root tells her, eyes stinging. "But I’m staying here. I have a number to worry about."

"I can wait," Shaw counters fiercely. "And once it’s taken care of, you can come  _back_.” She’s practically on top of Root now, close enough to share the same air as they brawl.

"I don’t think you understand," Root spits, feeling the hard lump in her throat. "I’m not. Going. to come. Back. I have things. To take care of. Elsewhere." She feels her heart ripping apart at the very words, and knows she can’t take a second more of this. She can’t be here, not looking into Shaw’s eyes.  _I need to escape._ She begins to turn, but is stopped.

Shaw grabs the collar of Root’s leather jacket, pulling her in. Root doesn’t know what to do, if she should run or stay or scream. She feels Shaw’s lips meet hers softly, then grow stronger against hers. Her eyes close as she stands there, motionless, all of the cold melting away from the fire in her body. Shaw pulls back slightly, lips trailing across Root’s as she bows her head, resting her forehead against Root’s. Root listens as she breathes.

” _Please. Come. Home_.” The words are choppy and whispered, and Root can feel Shaw’s expression change, slip from neutrality to anguish at the words.  _This is the last time she’s asking_ , Root acknowledges, feeling her heart lurch and stomach twist.  _If I tell her no, she’ll let me stay._

 _But I don’t want to stay_ , she thinks miserably, feeling it impossible to breathe. One of Shaw’s hands leaves Root’s jacket.  _I could run, I could run right now_ , she tells herself.  _I could run right now and she wouldn’t come after me_. Root feels Shaw’s hand return, slipping between her jacket and shirt, gliding across her side.

”..Okay.”

Shaw pulls her hand back, and Root opens her eyes just in time to see it tuck behind Shaw’s back. Shaw opens her eyes as well, drawing back. She runs her tongue over her teeth, awkwardly fumbling for words. “Do you, uh, have a hotel around here?” Shaw asks, eyes not quite meeting Roots. “I haven’t slept.” Root gives her a small smile, and begins to walk. Shaw matches her stride for stride, walking on Root’s right side.

They walk a small way in silence before Shaw speaks again. “I’m glad… that you said you’ll come back.” Root can’t help the smile that lightens her entire face.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Shaw replies. "I really didn’t want to have to use this." She holds up a black rectangle in her right hand, and Root’s eyes widen. "Carrying you would’ve been  _awful_.”

"You were going to  _taze_  me?” She asks in hysteria. “With my  _own_  taser?!” She swipes it from Shaw’s hand angrily, who can’t help but laugh.

"I wasn’t  _leaving_  you here,” Shaw tells her with a smirk. “I could get you in a suit case if I tried hard enough.” Root sends her a dangerous glare, shoving the taser into her back pocket. Shaw only smiles at her, unable to take the glowering stare seriously. “Why did you  _think_  I put my hand around your waist?” Root looks at her a moment more before shaking her head, looking straight ahead, cheeks turning a vibrant pink.

"I’m saving my number before we leave," Root tells Shaw as they walk into the hotel. She tries to get the blush from her face, but finds it impossible.

"Yeah, sure, whatever you want," Shaw replies agreeably, and Root’s heart summer-salts. Looking back so Shaw, her chagrin fades, and a warm, unsuppressable smile takes its place.  _Whatever I want_ , she muses.  _Now that’s quite a dangerous phrase._


End file.
